


Stupid MF

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Gen, Retarded Rob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:00:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A developmental delay. That’s what they say he has. Which sounds a whole load better than, "He’s a retard."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stupid MF

A developmental delay. That’s what they say he has. Which sounds a whole load better than, he’s a retard. He learned to crawl, walk and speak a lot later than other children his age, which worried his mother and annoyed his father. But he got there. He was just…delayed.

But the people he is supposed to call his friends, they still sigh and groan and roll their eyes when he is awkward in public. When they have band meetings and he has to ask them to wait so he can write down what they’re saying because he’ll forget, but he writes so slowly they become impatient and snap at him.

The people his parents think he is safe around still call him “Super retard” when they think he isn’t listening.

“I can hear you know, Chester, m’not stupid.” He hisses.

Chester stares and snorts, “Yeah sure. What’s half of three hundred?”

Half of two hundred is…half of two is one…half of two hundred is one hundred…half of one hundred is fifty…one hundred plus fifty is…

“Yeah,” Chester says, “Whatever.”

Some people never change. When Rob first met everybody in the band he forgot their names almost instantly. Which spurred off the usual, “What, were you deprived of oxygen at birth or something?” comments.

They were just joking and probably they wanted Rob to laugh. Weren’t expecting his calm shrug and nod, “Yeah.”

He tries to explain himself the way the doctors told him to. He never used the word ‘spastic’ or ‘retard’ but those are the ones he hears the band use the most. Especially Chester who never seems to get bored of teasing him.

Rob can’t think of a witty reply fast enough so he usually stumbles over his words and blushes deeply until he goes away. Later, when he is in bed, he’ll think of something funny he could have said that would have shot Chester down. And he kicks himself.

And he cries.

The next day and the bad feelings have gone away because the sun is shining and it’s beautiful. He goes downstairs, padding through the hotel lobby in his Superman pyjamas to the gardens outside. He sits on the grass and watches cars drive by, their windows rolled down. Days like this he feels good – the sun, the warmth, there’s no rush to be anywhere.

Chester comes stomping out of the hotel and stands over Rob, blocking the sun. “The staff have told me you can’t sit here. Can’t you read the signs?”

‘Please keep off the grass’, the tiny wooden sign says. But the answer is, “No.”

And Chester knows that already. And Rob doesn’t know what a rhetorical question is.

He gets to his feet, brushing grass from his pyjamas and squints, “Why can’t I sit here? It’s sunny.”

“Because you’re on their grass. That’s why.”

“It’s not their grass.” Rob laughs. “It’s God’s grass. The hotel don’t own it.”

People are listening to them argue and Chester knows they’re laughing. Rob, though, is oblivious and he’s staring the irate singer down.

Eventually Chester snaps, grabs Rob’s wrist roughly and drags him away from the grass, leads him back inside and shoves him into the elevator. Once the doors shut he yells, “Could you at least pretend to be normal? Linkin Park are all the time getting comments about your fucking stupidity in reviews. The saying goes, you’re as strong as your weakest member. And that’d be you.”

Rob presses himself up against the elevator wall, shivers and whispers, “I just wanted to sit on the grass.”

“Yeah well you fucking can’t. You’re not four years old, Rob. So grow up. And buy some fucking adult pyjamas.”

Silence. Then the ping of the elevator reaching their floor.

Rob trails his feet back to his room, confused. Struggles for a few minutes to unlock the door and once he gets in he slams it behind him.

Trashes his room.

Then goes back to bed where he dreams about better times.

And fudge.


End file.
